It was the San Event. Everything timed back to last year’s or forward to next year’s Picnic. Unless death actually had his finger poked into you, no one able to stand on his two feet missed the Picnic; otherwise he would be considered a funker. The Picnic…

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Grace Willet read the letter while lying upon her bed during the noon Rest Hour. “How awful, you poor darling, incarcerated in that lung place. How can you bear it? but, for the sake of others—of course. If (scratched out and when substituted) you do come out, you will have to…

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Two little maids in scarlet, and very snowy as to caps and aprons, staggered onto the Circular Porch, one bearing a heavy tray. On it was an enormous “Brown Betty”, nests of cuddling cups, plates of thick bread and butter. The other maid was provided with a folding…

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